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    Afterwhiles
    Afterwhiles
    Afterwhiles
    Ebook142 pages1 hour

    Afterwhiles

    By James Whitcomb Riley

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateApr 1, 1979
    Afterwhiles

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      Book preview

      Afterwhiles - James Whitcomb Riley

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Afterwhiles, by James Whitcomb Riley

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Afterwhiles

      Author: James Whitcomb Riley

      Release Date: May 19, 2005 [EBook #15862]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AFTERWHILES ***

      Produced by Teary Eyes Anderson

      ***Transcriber's Note. Most of this etext was made with a Top Scan text scanner, with a bit of correcting here and there. Mr. Riley does spell pretty=purty and such things and have been left as printed, including the first poem in this book listed as Proem on both the contents page and the page headers, even though in later editions this poem is simply called Afterwhiles. In The South Wind and the Sun the line is 'Laughed out in every look.' while in later versions it has the word 'nook', replacing 'look.' The poem Old Aunt Mary's is later retitled Out To Old Aunt Mary's and later enlarged by 13 verses. The In Dalect section has the ' to replace a letter that he left out, to make the word sound a certain way, including words like sure-enuff he writes as sho'-nuff, or He'pless as helpless and ect. This etext is based on the 1898 edition Published by The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis Publishers. Teary Eyes Anderson***

      Afterwhiles by James Whitcomb Riley

      Dedicated to my mother Elizabeth

         Contents

      Proem (AKA Afterwhiles)

      Herr Weiser

      The Beautiful City

      Lockerbie Street

      Das Krist Kindel

      Anselmo

      A Home Made Fairy Tale

      The South Wind and the Sun

      The Lost Kiss

      The Sphinx

      If I knew What Poets Know

      Ike Walton's Prayer

      A Rough Sketch

      Our Kind of a Man

      The Harper

      Old Aunt Mary's (AKA Out To Old Aunt Mary's Later was enlarged by 13

      verses)

      Illileo

      The King

      A Bride

      The Dead Lover

      A Song

      When Bessie Died

      The Shower

      A Life-Lesson

      A Scrawl

      Away

      Who Bides His Time

      From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay

      Laughter Holding Both His Sides

      Fame

      The Ripest Peach

      A Fruit Piece

      Their Sweet Sorrow

      John McKeen

      Out of Nazareth

      September Dark

      We to Sigh Instead of Sing

      The Blossoms on the Trees

      Last Night And This

      A Discouraging Model

      Back from a Two Year Sentence

      The Wandering Jew

      Becalmed

      To Santa Claus

      Where the Children Used to Play

      A Glipse of Pan

         Sonnets

      Pan

      Dusk

      June

      Silence

      Sleep

      Her Hair

      Dearth

      A Voice from the Farm

      The Serenade

      Art and Love

      Longfellow

      Indiana

      Time

      Grant At Rest August 8, 1885

         In Dialect

      Old Fashioned Roses

      Griggsby's Station

      Knee Deep in June

      When the Hearse Comes Back

      A Canary at the Farm

      A Liz Town Humorist

      Kingry's Mill

      Joney

      Like His Mother Used to Make

      The Train Misser

      Granny

      Old October

      Jim

      To Robert Burns

      A New Year's Time at Willard's

      The Town Karnteel

      Regardin' Terry Hut

      Leedle Dutch Baby

      Down on Wriggle Crick

      When de Folks is Gone

      The Little Town o' Tailholt

      Little Orphant Annie

      Proem

      Where are they— the Afterwhiles—

      Luring us the lengthening miles

      Of our lives? Where is the dawn

      With the dew across the lawn

      Stroked with eager feet the far

      Way the hills and valleys are?

      Were the sun that smites the frown

      Of the eastward-gazer down?

      Where the rifted wreaths of mist

      O'er us, tinged with amethyst,

      Round the mountain's steep defiles?

      Where are the afterwhiles?

      Afterwhile— and we will go

      Thither, yon, and too and fro—

      From the stifling city streets

      To the country's cool retreats—

      From the riot to the rest

      Were hearts beat the placidest:

      Afterwhile, and we will fall

      Under breezy trees, and loll

      In the shade, with thirsty sight

      Drinking deep the blue delight

      Of the skies that will beguile

      Us as children— afterwhile.

      Afterwhile— and one intends

      To be gentler to his friends—,

      To walk with them, in the hush

      Of still evenings, o'er the plush

      Of home-leading fields, and stand

      Long at parting, hand in hand:

      One, in time, will joy to take

      New resolves for some one's sake,

      And wear then the look that lies

      Clear and pure in other eyes—

      We will soothe and reconcile

      His own conscience— afterwhile.

      Afterwhile— we have in view

      A far scene to journey to—,

      Where the old home is, and where

      The old mother waits us there,

      Peering, as the time grows late,

      Down the old path to the gate—.

      How we'll click the latch that locks

      In the pinks and hollyhocks,

      And leap up the path once more

      Where she waits us at the door—!

      How we'll greet the dear old smile,

      And the warm tears— afterwhile!

      Ah, the endless afterwhiles—!

      Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles,

      In distance far withdrawn,

      Stretching on, and on, and on,

      Till the fancy is footsore

      And faints in the dust before

      The last milestone's granite face,

      Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space.

      O far glimmering worlds and wings,

      Mystic smiles and beckonings,

      Lead us through the shadowy aisles

      Out into the afterwhiles.

      Herr Weiser

      Herr Weiser—! Three-score-years-and-ten—,

      A hale white rose of his country-men,

      Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,

      And blossomy as his German home—

      As blossomy and as pure and sweet

      As the cool green glen of his calm retreat,

      Far withdrawn from the noisy town

      Where trade goes clamoring up and down,

      Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,

      May not trouble his tranquil life!

      Breath of rest, what a balmy gust—!

      Quite of the city's heat and dust,

      Jostling down by the winding road,

      Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode—.

      Tether the horse, as we onward fare

      Under the pear-trees trailing there,

      And thumping the wood bridge at night

      With lumps of ripeness and lush delight,

      Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn,

      Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.

      Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face,

      And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace

      Of unassuming honesty,

      Be there to welcome you and me!

      And what though the toil of the farm be stopped

      And the tireless plans of the place be dropped,

      While the prayerful master's knees are set

      In beds of pansy and mignonette

      And lily and aster and columbine,

      Offered in love, as yours and mine—?

      What, but a blessing of kindly thought,

      Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not—!

      What, but a spirit of lustrous love

      White as the aster he bends above—!

      What, but an odorous memory

      Of the dear old man, made known to me

      In days demanding a help like his—,

      As sweet as the life of the lily is—

      As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise

      Born of a lily in paradise.

      The Beautiful City

      The Beautiful City! Forever

      Its rapturous praises resound;

      We fain would behold it— but never

      A glimpse of its dory is found:

      We slacken

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